


How Do They Rise Up

by The Librarina (tears_of_nienna)



Series: The Glorious People's Republic of the Cafe Musain [1]
Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Book: Night Watch, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 22:06:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tears_of_nienna/pseuds/The%20Librarina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire teaches Gavroche a song. The revolution goes rather differently than expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because I have A Thing about _Night Watch_. Written on the occasion of the Glorious 25th of May, 2013.

Grantaire is supposed to be keeping Gavroche out of trouble—and himself out of the way—but instead he’s decided to teach the boy a dirty sort of marching song about angels. Gavroche is perched on an empty wine cask, and Grantaire leans against the barricade beside him, green glass bottle never out of reach. 

“Think you’ve got it?” Grantaire asks him, very seriously.

Gavroche nods.

“All right, then. Ready?”

“Ready!”

And Grantaire starts singing, warm and bright.

“All the little angels rise up, rise up,  
All the little angels rise up high!  
How do they rise up, rise up, rise up?  
How do they rise up, rise up high?”

Gavroche is giggling as he picks up the next line. “They rise _arse_ up, _arse_ up, _arse_ up! They rise _arse_ up, _arse_ up high!”

It’s difficult to tell which of them is having more fun, but as long as it keeps Gavroche out of harm’s way—and Grantaire from fetching another bottle of wine—Enjolras isn’t going to complain.

Just after noon, he passes a little too close to the pair of them with an armload of rifles. Gavroche is still singing, his voice high and clear. “How do they rise up, rise up, rise up? How do they rise up, rise up high?”

Too late, Enjolras sees the tiny smirk playing at the edge of Grantaire’s lips. “They rise _prick_ up, _prick_ up, _prick_ —”

“ _Grantaire_!” Enjolras shouts, turning on his heel. “That’s obscene!”

“Oh, it’s all right, Monsieur Enjolras,” Gavroche says reassuringly. “I know _lots_ worse.”

* * *

To Enjolras’ despair, the tune sticks in his head, running over and over as the afternoon fades into evening and he scours the Musain for more furniture to shore up their barricade. _All the little angels rise up, rise up, all the little angels rise up high—_

He doesn’t realize he’s been humming the tune until he catches sight of Grantaire, leaning against the bar and watching him with narrowed, gleaming eyes.

They’re alone in the cafe for now, though how long it will last is anyone’s guess. Grantaire takes full advantage of their solitude, abandoning the support of the bar to press Enjolras back against the cracked plaster wall.

His lips brush the curve of Enjolras’ ear. “How do you rise up, Apollo?”

Enjolras shows him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also written for last year's Glorious 25th of May. Ankh-Morpork has begun seeping into this Paris at an astonishing rate...

Combeferre and Courfeyrac finally manage to talk Enjolras into a few hours’ sleep, which he takes grudgingly and with a demand that he be woken for even the slightest news.

He feels better when Grantaire comes to wake him in the evening—not least because of the  _manner_  in which Grantaire wakes him—and by the time they descend to the street Enjolras feels ready to face the gendarmes who must even now be massing beyond the barricade.

As soon as he leaves the cafe, he realizes something is wrong. The plaza in front of the Musain is empty.

Very empty.

 _Entirely_  empty.

Enjolras takes a deep breath and finds that it does not help at all. “Grantaire.”

“Yes?”

“Grantaire,  _where is my barricade_?”

He tucks his hands into his pockets. “Oh, that. It’s the funniest thing, really…”

Enjolras gives him an icy stare. “Do I look particularly amused to you?”

“Well…no, now that you mention it. You know, frowning like that causes headaches, you really should lighten up a little bit—”

“ _Grantaire_!”

“All right, all right. Remember how we used LaMarque’s hearse as sort of the base of the barricade? Well, it turns out that if you push the barricade just right, you can actually get it to move. Slowly, of course, and it’s pretty wobbly, but it moves. So we pushed it up to that little park by the inn.”

“You pushed it— Grantaire, that’s  _half a mile_!”

“I know. We would have gotten farther, but it seems that Marius’ girl is staying in the Rue Plumet, and when we pushed the barricade past her window he got a little…distracted.”

Enjolras stares. “Distracted.”

"He ran us into a lamp and broke one of the axles. So we’re sort of stuck there for now. But Feuilly went to talk to the people at the other barricades, and they got theirs moving, too—sort of like a shield-wall, from what he says. Combeferre’s got a map, and he probably has actual calculations, but with the river at our backs, we had almost a square mile to ourselves before the soldiers realized what was happening—and by then, of course, it was really too late.”

A desperate sort of hope kindles in Enjolras' chest. “But we’d have almost a quarter of the city, then.”

"Looks like it. And people…well. You should go see for yourself."

Enjolras takes off down the road, running lightly over the cobblestones. When he turns the last corner, he finds that his tiny group of revolutionaries has grown.

There are people standing behind the barricade,  _hundreds_  of them. Some look perplexed to find that a barricade has suddenly sprung up in front of their houses and businesses, but others are gathered around Combeferre and Jehan and Joly, listening to their plans for the Republic. Still more are dragging chairs and tables out of their houses to shore up the barricade.

Even a few soldiers are standing there, minus their tall hats and their insignia--and minus their weapons, to Enjolras' relief. Defectors, then, come to support their cause.

Enjolras runs a head-count of his friends and comes up one short. “Where’s Courfeyrac?” he asks Grantaire, who has caught up with him.

"He’s on watch because he’s banned from recruiting. He’s been editing our demands based on what the people say they want."

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Truth, justice, and freedom aren't quite enough for him?”

"Last I heard he was also demanding 'reasonably-priced love' and certain breakfast foods. Me, I’d settle for reasonably-priced  _wine_ , but…”

"I’ll have a talk with him."

Enjolras climbs the barricade—which is definitely larger than it had been the night before—to sit beside Courfeyrac at the top.

"Good evening, dear leader!" Courfeyrac says brightly.

"So what’s this I hear about ‘reasonably-priced love’ and breakfast food?"

"You have to give the people what they  _want_ , Enjolras. And the people want inexpensive liaisons and eggs. Lots of eggs—hard-boiled, but so the yolk’s still a little runny. And maybe some toast to dip into it…”

Enjolras rolls his eyes and plucks the rifle from Courfeyrac's hand. “Go and get something to eat, then. I’ll take the watch.”

"O fearless leader, you truly feel the concerns of the populace! Long live Enjolras!"

"Get out of here," he mutters, but he can’t help but smile to himself as Courfeyrac clambers down the barricade in search of love or breakfast or both.

Enjolras looks out on Paris at night—a city so close to freedom he can almost taste it. He checks the rifle to be sure it’s primed and ready, and then he settles down to the long night-watch with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi at [my tumblr](http://thelibrarina.tumblr.com)!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ankh-Morpork does sort of _ooze_ into things, doesn't it? For one thing, I'm almost certain that there was no Assassins' Guild when I started this story...

Just past dawn, Gavroche squirms into the barricade and tugs on Grantaire’s sleeve. Grantaire bends down to listen and then immediately hefts the boy up onto his shoulders. “Do you want to tell them the news?” he asks.

Gavroche nods, and Grantaire borrows a loudhailer from one of the soldiers who had joined them. “Listen, everybody!”

Every head at the barricade turns towards Gavroche. The last time he made an announcement, it had been to say that LaMarque was dead, and that the time for their revolution had come.

“What is is, Gavroche?” Courfeyrac asks.

He grins. “The king is dead! Long live the republic!”

The street fills with cheers, a ragged wave of noise that would frighten any enemies stationed nearby—enemies who have no one to command them now that the king is dead.

No one seems concerned with any of the details—no one save Enjolras. “How did it happen?” he asks quietly, when Grantaire has sent Gavroche off to find his sister.

Grantaire shrugs. “Sounds like it was suicide.  _He_  doesn’t know you’re not the guillotine-building type, after all.”

"That is true, I suppose."

"You should get yourself to the Palais Royal," Grantaire says. "Sounds like there’s a lot of cleaning up to do."

Enjolras nods. “I’m sure there is. I—Grantaire, thank you.”

"No need to thank me," he says with a grin. "I didn’t do anything but pass on the news."

"You’ve done a great deal more than that."

For a moment, Grantaire’s eyes narrow in suspicion, but Enjolras pulls him into an alley-way to brush a brief kiss against his mouth. “Things will be—complicated, for a while. But I hope…I hope you will stay?”

Grantaire tugs him deeper into the shadows for a proper kiss. “My place is always with you,” he says when they are finished. “Now go start your Republic. I’ll be here when you want me.”

* * *

Grantaire waits until Enjolras turns the corner, and then he takes a bundle of clothes from behind a pillar, a ragged patchwork mess of greys and dark greens. Of course black is traditional, and very symbolic, but it stands out like hell when you’re crawling across a palace roof in the darkness.

Grantaire gathers up the clothes and wraps them around a full bottle of wine, for the weight—it pains him to waste it, but what can you do?

There is a loose sewer grating in an alley nearby, and he pries it open just far enough to drop the bundle in. It sinks straight into the muck with barely a splash. Grantaire closes the grating and smiles to himself, and then he walks away into the street, whistling.

It’s a bright spring morning, and the world, it seems, is about to change.

_How do they rise up, indeed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Yes, the loudhailer soldier is Hadley. I couldn't leave him on the wrong side of the revolution, could I?)
> 
> [This](http://thelibrarina.tumblr.com) is my tumblr, come say hi!


End file.
